


until the dark becomes your world (and you can see)

by Whitefox



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Dreams vs. Reality, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Incest, PTSD, Season/Series 08, Serial Killers, Suicidal Thoughts, asexuality or something like it, did i mention the fluff?, way too much swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 13:04:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whitefox/pseuds/Whitefox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Debra sleeps, and dreams of a happier life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	until the dark becomes your world (and you can see)

**Author's Note:**

> I’m writing this as a sort of therapy to get myself through the final season, so there will probably be more, if anyone's interested. Starts at some vague point in early S8, and the dreams kick off in an AU of the S6 finale. Also, if Dexter seems a little OOC at times, keep in mind these are Debra’s dreams, and she’s always seen her brother as a better person than he is, so. Here there be fluff.
> 
> Title is paraphrased from something Dexter says way back in the opening of the season 1 finale. ...That seems so long ago. 8 years! I can’t believe it’s ending. D:

 

 

 

  
_  
_*

_In her dreams, Dexter doesn’t kill people.  He chops up carrots and apples instead of body parts; wraps fruit in plastic as snacks for Harrison instead of bodies on tables; tosses fish back into the sea from his boat instead of black garbage bags.  He’s a good father, brother, friend, colleague.  He still has his unexplained absences, stays out way too late at night for someone with no social life to speak of, and never quite manages appropriate emotions, but there’s nothing sinister about it.  He’s just her weird, quirky brother, and she loves him._

_In her dreams, she checks the space behind his air conditioner obsessively, every time he goes out.  There’s never anything there, and she can never quite remember what she expected to find._

*

The first time Deb wakes and remembers one of these dreams, she cracks open the hard liquor and doesn’t get a decent night’s sleep again for days.  She fights the urge to go look behind Dexter’s air conditioner, because she knows that no matter what she finds there, it won’t make any difference.  There’s no fixing what’s been broken, and she wishes her subconscious would stop trying, because the fact is that it’s not even about Dexter anymore; it’s her.  _She’s_ the problem, because she never had any childhood trauma, and she never had trusted adults in her life teaching her to kill people like it was some sacred duty, but she’s still the incestuous fuck-up of the family and she’s still out there murdering good, innocent police captains to protect a serial killer.

And that’s the real crapshoot of it.  She did shoot the wrong person in that container, but it’s even more fucked up than Dexter thinks, because if she could go back in time and do it over, she still wouldn’t shoot her brother.  Dexter may be a serial killer, but he’s still not fucked up enough to hear her when she talks about suicide.

That shouldn’t reassure her the way it does.

*

 

_She goes to the church with a confession on her tongue and what feels like the entire contents of her stomach at the back of her throat, ready to come up at a moment’s notice.  She can taste the acid as she pushes open the heavy wooden door and she wonders again (and again, and again) if this a monumentally stupid idea that will fuck up the one constantly good thing in her life, and so what if it’s a revelation that changes the meaning behind every decision she’s made in her entire fucking life, there’s absolutely no reason to think he feels the same, or will even understand._

_But even though her hands are shaking and her stomach is puking butterflies, there’s an odd calm running through her veins that soothes her heart and steadies her feet, because this feels_ right _like few things in her life ever have.  So she rests her cheek against the thick wood for a breath of stale incense and varnish, swallows the bile, and presses on._

_The church is hushed and exactly how she left it, minus the cheering daylight.  She steps softly into the vestibule and listens, though she’s not sure what she expects to hear.  The only sounds to reach her ears are the creaking of old wood in Miami heat and the scrape-shuffle of a blood-spatter analyst at work.  She pauses and just listens for a rallying second.  Dexter is the quietest person she knows, but even he is not a ghost._

_She finds her brother crouched amid the pews, shining his UV flashlight and hunting for blood.  Relief surges through her at the sight of him, familiar and reliable and she can do this, really.  She scuffs a shoe on the unmarked wood floor and his head snaps up._

_“Deb?”_

_“Hey, fuckwad,” is what comes out of her mouth, and she hadn’t meant to swear this early into the conversation, really, but she’d almost said ‘bro’ and that would have been worse.  “Find anything we can use?”_

_Dexter takes the unexpected name-calling in stride, and Deb feels a surge of affection at his unquestioning tolerance, built up through years of exposure.  “No.  Place is clean.”_

_He doesn’t seem to have anything to add, so she charges ahead.  “Let’s get out of here, then.  Beer and steaks.  Your place.”_

_He blinks at her, and she knows behind that blank stare he’s going over whatever unbelievably boring geek plans he had for his night.  She gives him a minute to think about it, because she’s considerate and shit._

_“Sure,” he finally concedes, and this is really happening.  “Just let me pack up.”_

_She goes out to her car to wait for him, and to attempt to pull herself together.  She’d almost hoped he would refuse, say he had plans (yeah, right) or was too tired or some shit, give her an easy out.  Now there’s no going back.  Her hands are shaking and making it all worse, so she grips the steering wheel until her knuckles turn white.  When she lets go, the muscles are too exhausted to twitch._

_She follows him back to his apartment because she doesn’t trust herself to independently negotiate traffic right now.  She wonders if she should’ve suggested her place instead, because she doubts she’ll be in any better shape after this conversation and she’ll still have to drive home, but the need for an escape plan outweighs safety concerns.  Dexter will be trapped this way, which is perhaps a bit unfair, but she doesn’t trust her social misfit of a brother to leave before it gets too awkward even if he could, so fuck it.  He can deal._

_At first, it’s not so bad.  They get to the apartment much too fast for her liking, but that’s okay, because it’s not like she’s planning to spring it on him right away or anything.  They cook the steaks, and drink a few beers, and Deb pretends she doesn’t see the concerned looks Dexter keeps giving her.  It’s awkward, a little, and the strange tension in the air is entirely her fault, but it’s still familiar and grounding like hanging out with her brother always is._

_And then, because she’s fucking retarded, she just says it.  Dexter’s telling some story about Harrison (all his stories are about Harrison), but she’s not really listening because she’s too busy chasing herself in circles inside her own head, and she just blurts it out.  Just – no warning, right in the middle of his story, cuts him off in mid-sentence and everything._ I love you.

 _He blinks, clearly nonplussed, and she’s such a fucking_ idiot _, because of course he doesn’t get it, and now she’ll have to say it all over again._

_“No, I mean—well, I mean of course I love you, that’s pretty fucking obvious, but.”  She has to stop, take a breath, because the room is spinning and she’s shaking so badly she’s in danger of falling off the couch.  She wishes she could blame it on the alcohol, but she knows she hasn’t had that much, unfortunately.  And – “Jesus fucking Christ on a cracker I’m in love with you.”  The words scrape through her throat like sandpaper, burning a raw wound from heart to lips, but she’s done it, she’s said it, it’s out there._

_His expression doesn’t change.  At first she assumes he still doesn’t get it – which would be fair, she thinks, given the speed of that sentence and the amount of swearing – but when he doesn’t say anything, she realizes he’s frozen that way.  She has no idea how she expected him to react – that was what made it so terrifying, really, the complete unpredictability of it all, like betting your life savings on a coin toss, or walking along the side of a cliff blindfolded.  But now he’s just sitting there, watching her with blank eyes and his mouth gaping a little, mouth-breather that he is, and all Deb can think is how much she loves his stupid face, and how broken she’ll be if she sees it wrinkle with even the slightest hint of disgust._

_She should’ve known this was a huge fucking mistake._

_“I don’t expect anything,” she rushes ahead before he can say whatever horrible things he’s thinking.  “Not, like, reciprocation or anything because I know it’s weird and wrong and—” and the words curdle on her tongue, feeling too much like lies or some obscure betrayal, so she switches tracks.  “It’s for my therapy, you know that cop therapist I had to see for my shooting, who’s been seriously fucking helpful with a lot of shit, like being Lieutenant and the fucking Doomsday psycho and…and you came up, and she made me realize that I—” she can’t say it, not again, not while he still looks like that, “and I wanted to tell you because it was big.  And…explains.  Things.”  He still looks stunned, and she’s losing the will to keep talking when she might just be making things worse.  “Dex?  Say something.  Please.”_

_“You’re in love with me,” he repeats, without inflection.  And normally she’d understand why he’d be stuck on that bit, really, but she’s kind of having a heart attack over here and it’d be really fucking great if he could catch up._

_She tells him as much, which startles him into a near laugh.  The tension in the room falls a good hundred degrees, and Deb feels like she can breathe again.  She even manages a tentative, wavery smile back._

_Dexter clears his throat and leans forward over the table, which, because of the angles they’re both sitting on the couch, means he leans a little towards her as well, and she hates how her heart still speeds up a bit, even now.  Especially when she catches the Serious Big Brother look on his face, which he picked up from their dad and usually means she’ll want to punch him for whatever comes out of his mouth next._

_“This is pretty sudden, Deb,” he starts, and oh, she was right, this is headed nowhere good.  “Are you sure you’re not just…imagining things?  You’ve been through a lot of changes recently, maybe you’re looking for something safe after…everything.  I mean, if your therapist had to suggest it, it didn’t really come from you, right?”_

_She waits a beat to make sure he’s done, because it wouldn’t be fair to attack him before he’d finished digging his hole.  “Okay, first?  If I was looking for_ safe _, there are a shit-ton of better options than my own fucking brother – and for the record, telling you was one of the scariest things I have ever done, so don’t you dare imply this is some...whim.  Second, I didn’t realize it on my own because it’s fucking crazy and_ wrong _, not because it’s not true!  Believe me, if I could ignore this or make it go away I would, but I know my own fucking feelings, Dexter!”_

_Dexter flinches a little, and Deb checks herself.  She’s standing, looming over the table, her hands are curled into fists, and she can feel the blood rushing to her face.  She’s not sure she even believes half of what she said, and she’s apparently hurt him, somehow._

_This is not how she’d wanted the evening to go._

_“Jesus,” she sighs, dropping into a chair and mirroring his hunched posture.  “Look, I’m sorry.  I don’t want to fight.  And I really don’t expect anything.  I just…wanted you to know how much you…mean to me.  I would suck without you, Dex.”_

_He blinks at her, slow like an alligator.  “Okay.”_

_“Okay,” she repeats dumbly, because of all the times for her brother to go robot on her, of course it would be now.  “Okay?”_

_Dexter gives a helpless little shrug, hands open in the universal gesture for peace.  “What do you want me to say, Deb?”_

_She feels like crying.  “Fuck, I don’t know, Dex.  Just…something.”_

_“I…love you too,” he tries.  “But—”_

_“I know, I know, not like that.  It’s fine.”  And it should be, really, because she can count the times he’s said the L word to her on one hand without needing most of the fingers, but instead she just feels empty and sad, like the world’s gone grayscale and nothing much matters any more.  What else did she really expect?  “Maybe I should just go.”_

_“Okay,” Dexter agrees, eyes wide and appeasing, like he really believes that’s what she wants.  And suddenly she can’t stand to look at him, with his uncomprehending eyes and his mouth hanging open like a grouper fish, so she does.  She leaves._

_Her hands are steady on the wheel the whole way to her house, but no matter how many times she wipes the windshield she can’t fix the way the road blurs in front of her eyes._

_*_

Deb wakes with wet cheeks and doesn’t move for a long time.  The ceiling of her motel room is water-stained and probably moldy, but it’s still better viewing right now than the backs of her eyelids.  Somehow it doesn’t surprise her that even in a world where Dexter doesn’t kill people, she still managed to fuck everything up past the point of no return.

She’s not sure if that counted as a nightmare, but if so, she decides she much prefers the ones with blood. 

 

*

_They don’t speak for about a week.  During this time Deb works herself into a frenzy and a few near panic attacks, convinces herself she’s alienated her best friend forever, harasses her therapist enough that she refuses to see her outside their scheduled sessions, subjects herself to enough unbelievably disgusting innuendos via Masuka that she suspects she is permanently scarred, has everyone in the department walking on eggshells (Dexter exempted, she assumes, though she never fucking_ sees _him so she can’t be sure), and is called in by both Matthews and LaGuerta on separate occasions to ‘check-in’ (she assures them both she’s working through it in therapy, and directs them to Dr. Ross if they have any more fucking intrusive questions)._

_She’d wondered before what her life would be like, without Dexter.  Now she knows.  It’s a complete fucking mess, and she’s not even surprised._

_This particular hell lasts until Friday, when he corners her just after lunch and she is reminded again why having an office can really suck.  She’s a sitting duck in here with her glass walls and single exit, and Dexter takes full advantage of that as he slides inside without warning and shuts the door behind him.  It’s insubordination, is what it is, and she should order him right the fuck out because she sure as shit didn’t give him permission to come barging in here, except, well.  He’s her brother, and…things._

_She can tell by the stiff way he’s standing that he has some sort of awful speech prepared, probably some ridiculous, incestuous riff on_ it’s not you, it’s me _or similar bullshit, and she’s figured that much out on her own, thanks so fucking much.  She doesn’t want to hear it but she figures she owes it to him to listen, so she sits and waits for the blow._

_He looks up, opens his mouth—and nothing comes out but air.  His shoulders slump as he looks into her eyes and she stares right back, a deer in the headlights, a rabbit in a snare.  Her heart is beating a crazy, unhealthy tattoo in her chest, but it’s the only part of her that isn’t frozen.  Dexter looks defeated and a little lost, and Deb has no idea how to interpret what’s happening._

_“Dinner?  Tonight, 8, The Palm.”_

_Deb blinks, startled as much by the sudden sound as the words themselves.  They take their time to sink in, and she’s opened her mouth to agree before she really understands what she’s agreeing to._

_“O—kay,” she says._

_“Okay,” Dexter repeats, and Deb wonders if they’ll get stuck like this eventually, trapped in an endless string of_ okay _s.  It would serve them right.  “Okay, good.  Tonight.”_

 _It’s only after he’s left that the full weight of the request sets in, and she realizes that Dexter has asked her out to dinner_ _at a fancy restaurant on a Friday, also known as_ date night _, a week after she admitted to being in love with him._

_And she said yes._

_Very slowly and very deliberately, Lt. Debra Morgan gets up, closes her door, draws her blinds, circles her desk and sits back down, and then proceeds to freak the fuck out._

_The rest of the day passes in a supremely unproductive blur.  The endless forms are far too dry to hold her attention, though she at least manages to stop herself short of doodling fucking dumbass hearts in the margins.  She watches the clock obsessively, double-checking with her watch every few minutes to make sure it’s not actually stopped (and, once, the clock in the break room to make sure her_ watch _hadn’t stopped).  A Friday afternoon has never felt this long._

_At around five o’clock (five-oh-four, to be exact, but Deb’s trying not to be), Quinn steps into her office.  He’s wearing that shirt with the patterns that hurt her eyes, and he has the strangest look on his face, like he can’t quite decide whether he’s amused or suspicious or some fucked up combination of things.  She wants him to go away, because he’s way too perceptive about the stupidest things and she doesn’t have time for this shit.  Not today._

_(Two hours, fifty-six minutes until dinner.)_

_“So Deb,” he starts, and oh good, so this isn’t about his latest fuck-up.  “What’s going on with you and Dexter?”_

_Deb stares.  She is in no way prepared for this question, and she doesn’t have the first clue what to say.  He doesn’t suspect the truth, obviously, or he would sound a lot more pissed and a lot less sane, but she has no idea how he’s interpreted whatever it is that he saw._

_“You’ve got to admit you’ve been…acting strangely the last few days,” Quinn says, which clarifies things not at all.  “And since he came to see you at lunch you’ve practically locked yourself in your office.  It just seems strange.”_

_“I have a shit-ton of paperwork to do,” she says in automatic defense, and before the words are even completely out she knows it was the wrong thing to say.  Some of the uncertainty bleeds out of Quinn’s posture, and he frowns._

_“You’ve been avoiding each other for days,” he says.  “And whenever you’re in the same room you give him these weird-ass glances.  I don’t know what the fuck his deal is, but if he’s done something—”_

_“We had a fight,” she interrupts him, because dinner is in two hours and fifty-four fucking minutes and she will not sit here and listen to him badmouth Dexter.  “Brothers and sisters fight.  It’s been known to happen.”_

_“Not with you two,” Quinn says, which, okay, he has a point.  Dexter’s way too fucking accommodating with people he cares about for them to ever seriously disagree.  She thinks the last time was probably when she was in her teens and still resented him for stealing her father’s attention, and even then Dex just kept trying to fix it.  She finally forgave him when he smuggled her a pistol to practice with behind their father’s back, and completed the transition from blaming Dexter for the lack of attention to blaming herself._

_“Fine,” she allows.  “We had a_ misunderstanding _.  It does happen like, once a decade.  And it’s all cleared up now, so your concern is noted, but you can go.”_

_“But you’re still all…moody,” Quinn says with his usual lack of tact and an odd hand gesture.  “And if it’s all sunshine and rainbows now, how come you’ve been holed up in here for hours?”_

_“Cause I’ve got a fucking backlog, that’s why,” Deb spits, because enough is enough.  “Jesus, Quinn.  Enough with the fucking interrogation already!”_

_“Right, sorry,” he mutters, rubbing his neck and looking contrite but not contrite enough.  “I’ll just, uh…”_

_“Get the fuck out,” Deb supplies, and he slithers back from whence he came._

_Except, the trouble is, Quinn is actually a good cop.  (Sometimes, when he can be bothered to pull his head out of his own ass long enough to pay attention, and even then often about the weirdest shit.)  She supposes she should’ve expected him to be paying close attention to her in the wake of their breakup, but she’s been so preoccupied with the other shitstorms in her life that she never had time or inclination to dwell, as he so clearly has.  Probably that’s part of a larger trend of him taking the relationship way more seriously in general, which she still feels bad about, but at the same time makes so much sense now that she can’t regret any of it._

_Dexter practically hates the guy, after all, and with good reason.  How could anyone believe she’d be serious about someone like that?_

_The point, though, is that Quinn is watching.  And while they don’t (and never will) have anything to hide, precisely, she doubts anyone other than Masuka would be supportive of this…whatever it is.  Especially an ex.  Who hates her brother._

_Jesus fuck.  What is she doing?  What is_ Dexter _doing?_

_Through her glass walls she can see Dexter talking with Masuka – or, rather, Masuka talking at her brother while Dexter works on something forensic-y and smiles awkwardly when prompted.  His hair is golden in the fluorescent lab lights, his brazenly pink shirt rolled up to the elbows and his beige-clad feet perched on the middle bar of his stool like the floor has something contagious he doesn’t want to catch.  He doesn’t notice her looking but her heart does this funny little tumble all the same, and she realizes all over again that she’d do anything for him, for this._

_Let Quinn watch.  The point, when it comes down to it, is that she just doesn’t give a fuck what anyone else thinks.  Dexter has always been enough for her.  Maybe, if she tries hard enough, she can be enough for him, too._

_(Two hours and thirty-nine minutes until dinner.)_

_Deb arrives at the restaurant five minutes early, which is only barely accomplished after a long, drawn-out war with her closet involving much panic, one ripped blouse, and an amount of high-volume swearing that is only ever advisable when you live alone and your neighbours suspect your house is haunted.  In the end she managed to talk herself down from a dress, but the long flowing blouse and cream slacks she ended up in are hardly better.  She feels a little like Rita and it makes her skin prickle, but she supposes there are worse people to feel a connection with._

_She’s never been to The Palm before, though it’s close enough to Dexter’s apartment to explain why he chose it.  The place is fancy enough that she would never be caught dead here on her own, if the prices on the drink menu are anything to go by, and she’s generally more of a microwave dinner and macaroni type of girl who wouldn’t know fine food if it egged her house and pissed on her lawn.  Still, it’s a steakhouse with actual reservations under ‘Morgan’, so maybe just this once it’d be worth it to splurge on a really nice slab of meat._

_She orders a glass of wine while she waits, and makes half-hearted small talk with her waiter, a smartly dressed Latino man with black-trimmed glasses and a too-white smile.  He asks her who she’s waiting for, and her stomach churns uneasily when she realizes she has no idea what to say.  She settles for ‘a friend’ after a very pregnant pause, and the waiter gives her this sly little wink and says he understands, but she knows he really, really doesn’t and wonders again what the fuck she’s doing._

_When the clock ticks over to 8:01 and Dexter’s still not there, Debra knows he’s not coming.   Dexter is never just ‘late’.  Her brother only has two settings: punctual like a fucking robot or so preoccupied that he just doesn’t bother to show up at all.  There is nothing in between.  Still, she doesn’t want to believe he would skip this, not when it was his idea, not when he knows how crazy all this makes her.  So she stays, and waits, and hopes.   And when he finally stumbles in at 8:07, an insane thought occurs to her._

_Maybe he’s nervous too._

_He certainly seems to have had a similar confrontation with his closet, and hasn’t emerged entirely unscathed.  His shirt is a deep red, like spilled wine or—spilled wine.  Dexter never wears red.  Add to that the way the shirt looks almost…tailored, and Deb’s pretty sure it passed ‘casual’ a few miles back.  Unlike the loose shirts he normally favours, this one is slimming, emphasizing his height and the trim lines of his body, and Deb’s willing to admit it’s a good look on him._

_“Sorry I’m late,” he says before he even sits down, and she loves him a little more for it because it shows that he knows that she knows how significant the last seven minutes have been, and fuck this is a terrible idea that’s already demolishing her capacity for coherent thought._

_“It’s okay,” she says._

_The waiter gives Deb this big smile when he sees Dexter sitting across from her, like he’s proud on her behalf, and Deb sits a little straighter despite the patronizing feel of it all because_ fuck _yeah, she’s proud of her brother.  They order their drinks (more wine for Deb, and fuckin’ lame-ass iced tea for teetotaler Dexter) and their food (steaks), and then the waiter leaves them alone, and, well._

_It’s awkward.  Oh fuck, is it awkward._

_Deb doesn’t know what to say, but she sure as shit isn’t going to be the first one to mention the fucking neon elephant in the room, so she asks him about his day.  Which is crap, because she was_ there _for his day, but Dexter takes it like a champ. Soon she’s listening to a surprisingly engaging account of why the blood spatter from last night’s murder-suicide was so confusing, and how it implies a third participant, possibly a child, possibly a dog, likely not injured.  And that’s probably something she should’ve known about already, as his boss and all, but he gets surprisingly animated when he talks about something he’s interested in, which she’s finding surprisingly adorable, and it’s not like it’s a major breakthrough or anything, so._

 _They move on naturally to other work-related topics, and it strikes Deb that it’s been far too long since they just sat and…_ chatted _.  Not about anything in particular, not with any ulterior motives or serious issues hanging over one or both of their heads, just…to talk, about everything and nothing and whatever the fuck they want.  And it’s nice, it’s_ so _nice that Deb almost forgets why they’re here and why that’s terrifying._

_Their food arrives and even Deb has to admit it’s delicious and hearty, though still not worth the fifty dollar price tag, in her opinion.  Which is, she supposes, why she doesn’t deserve nice food._

_“So what was up with Quinn?” Dexter segues after a comfortable pause.  He’d received a tiny yellow umbrella with his iced tea, and now he’s twirling it absentmindedly in his left hand while he eats.  It’s distracting and oddly mesmerizing, which is why Deb doesn’t pick up on the danger right away._

_“What about Quinn?”_

_“He was staring at me strangely all day.  I noticed he went to talk to you about something, thought you might have an idea what was going on.”_

_“Oh.”  Slowly, the pieces click into place.  “_ Oh _.  That.”  She swallows, and her stomach gives a vicious flip like it’s making up for lost time.  She lowers her fork.  “He was just…concerned…about our disagreement.”_

_Dexter’s eyebrows inch up.  “You told him?”_

_“No!  Fuck no.  He just noticed something was wrong, that’s all.  He’s been strange since we broke up.”_

_“That’s an understatement,” Dexter mutters, quiet enough that Deb’s not sure she’s meant to hear.  He takes his time chewing through his piece of steak, and Deb uses the opportunity to take a fortifying gulp of wine.  “You know, he tried to get me to talk to you, about the proposal.  Said he didn’t want you to feel like you had to choose between us.”_

_Deb feels too hot, though whether it’s anger or…something else, she’s not sure.  “But you didn’t.”_

_“No,” he agrees._

_“Why?”_

_“Quinn’s an idiot,” he says, and meets her eyes.  She nearly flinches away, but manages to hold steady at the last second.  “You deserve better.”_

_Her heart’s pounding crazily and she has to grip the table to stop her hands from twitching all over the place, but she doesn’t dare move her eyes from his for a second because this is it, this_ matters.  _“It would never be him.”_

_“I know,” he agrees.  There’s something weirdly triumphant in his tone, and she can’t make sense of it, not objectively._

_“Dexter…?”  She hates how plaintive she sounds, but they’re on quicksand here, and he’s always the one with all the answers._

_He sighs and finally looks away.  “Deb…you need to understand, I don’t…”  He pauses, twirls his tiny umbrella.  “I don’t_ want _people.”_

 _This is so patently untrue that Deb is speechless.  He was_ married, _for fuck’s sake.  Dexter must (for once) pick up on some of this from the way she’s gaping unattractively at him, because he starts talking again, unprompted._

_“It’s hard to explain,” he says.  “I don’t…  Damn it, Deb, you were there.  Did you ever see me looking at girls, when we were younger?”_

_“…No,” Deb says, because she didn’t, now that he mentions it.  He was always looking at_ her _, of course, but she knows better than to think that counts.  There was that one girl he took to prom, but even she could tell that was the most awkward fucking night of his life.  “But, Dex.  You were_ married. _”_

_“Yes," he agrees, "and did you know Rita and I didn’t sleep together until a full year after we started dating?”  Deb blinks at him, because no, she hadn’t known and she kind of wishes she didn’t now.  Dexter shakes his head and looks away, clearly frustrated, but she doesn’t see how that’s her problem.  He’s being fucking cryptic, like usual._

_She takes a generous gulp of wine and savours the tang as she prepares herself for the question she has to ask next.  “You were fucking married, Dexter.  You have a fucking_ kid.  _Are you trying to tell me Harrison is the immaculate fucking conception?”_

_Dexter’s mouth twitches up at that.  “No.  But it…it was mostly for Rita.  It was what she wanted.”  He pauses, staring down at his steak as if it used to be someone he knew, and then adds, “I did a lot of things because she wanted them.”_

_Deb glares, even though (because) he can’t see her.  She’s too irritated and anxious to feel sympathetic like she knows she should, and Dexter’s drinking fucking iced tea so what the fuck’s his problem?  She reaches for more wine but finds the glass empty, which is just fucking awesome because she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want the waiter overhearing any of this._

_“So what,” she grinds out, “you just lay back and thought of Miami?”_

_“Well, not…exactly,” he hedges, and Deb wants to fucking sock him.  “It…I did enjoy it.  But I don’t…  Deb, you can see two people in a room and know you’re attracted to one and not the other.  It’s not like that for me.  It’s…learned behaviour.”_

_Oh god, she knows where this is going.  “Jesus fuck Dex, you sound like a lab experiment.”_

_“Maybe,” he admits with a little chuckle, and Deb immediately wants to take it back because that is an awful thing to think about yourself, but he doesn’t give her a chance.  “What I’m trying to say is…  I love you, Deb.  More than anyone.  You deserve to have everything you want, so if you want this from me, then I can…try…to give it to you.  If you’re willing to put up with my weirdness, that is.”_

_Deb can’t speak.  Even if her mouth didn’t feel too dry to make a sound, she wouldn’t know what to say.  She wants to say yes, she really does, because he’s offering something she never dared hope for, but it feels…weird.  Like she’s taking advantage of someone who doesn’t know any better, like she’d be corrupting him…which is fucking ridiculous, because he knows the taboos as well as she does and hasn’t run screaming yet._

_“It’s…” she has to clear her throat, try again.  “It’s always been like this?  For you?”_

_Dexter nods.  “Always.  Probably always will.  It’s nothing to do with you.”  He cocks his head, all his earlier frustration replaced by his usual calm.  “This could be good, you know.  We’d be able to be there for each other more.  You wouldn’t be making yourself crazy over relationships and could focus on being an amazing Lieutenant.  We’ve always worked well together, it would be so easy.  And Harrison would get a real mother.”_

_Oh fuck, Harrison.  The final nail in the coffin._

_She’s opening her mouth to respond but freezes when he reaches across the table to grab her hand.  It’s an awkward reach, as he has to hold his arm up and out to avoid the food, but the touch is electrifying and not awkward at all.  He catches her eye and holds it, looking so fucking serious that she knows she doesn’t have a chance._

_“Deb,” he says.  “I need you to be sure.  Is this what you want?”_

_She’s sure.  She thinks she’s been sure ever since that fucking dream a week ago, or maybe ever since the first time she made him laugh._

_“Fuck yeah, this is what I want,” she says, and it comes out light as a wish and heavy as a promise.  He closes his eyes – one, two, three – and then releases her hand.  He smiles, soft and tentative; she smiles back in kind, and they each reach for another bite of steak._

_So they have their issues.  So what?  So does everyone.  The best anyone can hope for in this shithole of a world is to find someone else with complimentary problems, and Deb’s beginning to the think she scored the jackpot._

_Fuckin’ A._

 

*

 

Deb doesn’t remember much when she wakes up, which she suspects is a mercy, but it’s still enough to send her rushing to the bathroom to puke up what’s left of her microwave dinner.  Because in her dream Dexter was wearing the same fucking red shirt that Rudy—Brian—whoever the fuck fucking _proposed_ to her in, and she isn’t prepared to consider the level of fucked-up she must have reached for her subconscious to come up with something like that.  It’s certainly never lacked for material, but this is a whole new dimension of twisted.

And yet, as she sits on her bathroom floor in the dark with her forehead pressed against the cool porcelain of her toilet and the wispy fragments of steak and wine and Dexter’s face in soft candlelight and Dexter’s hand on hers, Deb thinks she would’ve been fine with never waking up.

 

*

_In her dreams, they become inseparable.  Sometimes they live in his apartment, and she’s forever stumbling over toys on the floor and hiding crime scene photos from Harrison, and there’s play dates and bath-time rituals and beers on the balcony and lazy Saturday mornings in bed.  Sometimes they live at her house and Harrison is a friendly whirlwind through her sanctuary, and there’s sticky handprints on her furniture and Dexter’s laptop beside hers and backyard barbeques and Sunday evenings on the beach.  Sometimes he wears a ring.  Sometimes, she does too._

_In her dreams, they will always be together.  And in her dreams, that’s more than enough._


End file.
